


Life is Strange:  Edge Transfer

by StormofCretins



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Adventure, Choices, F/F, F/M, Introspection, Love, Mystery, Regret, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2020-03-17 11:18:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18964192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormofCretins/pseuds/StormofCretins
Summary: Sometimes we have to make hard choices and the consequences last forever with the only satisfaction being that you did the right thing for the right reason.  What would you do if you found out you were wrong?





	1. Chapter 1

Max Caulfield drew a sudden, shallow breath as she clarified into existence from her leap across time.  Later she would think of how her Polaroid film would resolve into her true subject from the blur of light and color and realize she had _developed_ each time.  In the moment, though, it was just a sudden flare of light and confusion as she “caught up” to the timeline she had made.

That _Chloe_ had made.

She was dimly aware her tears were gone, her eyes no longer inflamed, her muted breaths no longer ragged, or that her ears no longer rang from the ferocious volume of the gun shot resounding off the tile walls of Blackwell’s girls’ bathroom.  But her last thoughts as she sat hiding from Nathan, her sole hope, was that Chloe’s sacrifice would succeed, would rescue their corner of the world from its own apocalypse.

It was with that hope that her eyes immediately lifted to the sky.  The clear, beautiful sky.

The storm was gone.

 _We_ … You _did it, Chloe_ , she thought.  With pride, with love.  She knew pain would come, and loss, but in this piece of time she wanted to allow a wave of exaltation, something to honor the woman far braver than she ever had been a day in her life.  _Chloe was a hero, Chloe had saved Arcadia Bay. Chloe was --_.

Max pushed the thought from her mind again and relaxed her shoulders.  She didn’t know why she was even at the lighthouse, she realized.  From her clothing she knew with a pang that she had “returned” in time for Chloe’s funeral, and apparently the time-oblivious autopilot version of herself felt like coming up here to reflect before attending. 

This confusion, too, was familiar.  She remembered nothing of the time between entering a photograph and “catching up” to herself in the timeline her changes created.  Or entered or rewrote.  She didn’t know, and no longer wanted to pretend she understood it.  But the longest she had spent in such a timeline had been walking along side a stricken, paralyzed version of Chloe, and even though she didn’t gain that knowledge, she still gradually felt the context of that life creeping in around the edges.  She wasn’t sure how much she would learn of how she spent these four days mourning her… mourning Chloe, entirely ignorant of her power over time or the joy and pain they’d shared; she wasn’t even sure she wanted to know any of it, lest it blur what she had brought forward in time with her of the truth she had experienced.  But she knew she would find out.

She wasn’t going anywhere.

 

**********

 

Max gently hung the black dress she’d worn to Chloe’s funeral in her closet.  She was intent on going to Rachel Amber’s funeral and with only Saturday between now and then she wouldn’t have a chance to get it cleaned.  It had never occurred to her to pack more than one funeral-ready option when she moved back to Arcadia Bay, more fool her.

The ceremony had been beautiful, and she had surprised herself by not weeping.  It was too surreal, she supposed, to have been just an hour earlier holding Chloe on the beach, overjoyed to see her alive.  Now what felt like an eyeblink later, Chloe had given her life for this town that she despised even on most good days.  If nothing else, Max was touched by how many people had come at all.  It was hard to remember Chloe was at Blackwell before, and longer than, Max.  Chloe was so forceful about her hatred of the place that Max didn’t always remember that she would have known and touched more people than just Rachel Amber.

Max wasn’t sure if Warren had known Chloe at all.  Chloe had mentioned knowing Kate in passing, but Max had just assumed Chloe meant she knew of her.  But Warren and Kate had both been there as well.  _Did they come for Chloe, or for me_? _But to them, Chloe is just a girl I used to know as a kid…_

Max shook her head in a quick snap to clear the thought.  She would drive herself fucking crazy second-guessing why her own friends would be at a funeral.  She felt grateful and she should.  Chloe wasn't there, but she was more loved than she’d known.  Max thought even Victoria’s emotion had been sincere, but of course with Nathan, Vic was probably on her own small roller coaster.  The photographer in her spoke up, pointing out that her classmate’s expression would have made a fascinating shot… but then she remembered Mark Jefferson’s plans for both herself and Victoria and shuddered.  Selfishly, Max winced as a fear she already felt bubbled up, that Jefferson had blown her love of photography out like a candle.

 _No, not that_ , Max brushed her hair behind her ears and puffed a breath up against her bangs.  _I won’t lose that, too_.

With that clarity she realized she was desperate to take pictures, of anything.  Now, tonight, while the sun was still arguing with the horizon’s firm and constant grasp.  She’d wasted no time getting back into a pair of lightly used jeans when she’d been dropped off at her dorm, so she had just needed to scramble into her sneakers and grab her camera…

She froze in place, staring at the camera on her desk, just above her familiar camera bag.  She had turned fully expecting to see William’s camera, the one Chloe had given her, the one she had taken shots with for days.  But it wasn’t; she was staring at her own camera.  The one that had “officially taken a shit” on her, she remembered saying.

 _Of course_ , she realized.  It hadn’t taken a shit because that happened fleeing the bathroom after saving Chloe, not sitting in the bathroom mourning her.  Chloe had never replaced it because she’d never gone home with Chloe that day.

The camera almost mocked her, defiantly _existing_ there, reminding her again, bitterly, of what had this happened this endless week. 

Max’s limbs went nearly slack as she flopped on to her sofa.  She landed hard enough she heard an atonal chord of protest from her guitar set off by the vibration.  Emotion within her was coming to a simmer and she wouldn’t let it boil over.  _Chloe was a hero, Chloe had saved Arcadia Bay_ , _Chloe was --_.

Even as her mind recoiled again from completing the thought, Max was startled by a tentative knock at her door.  She whipped her head to her right, glaring at the door like she’d never seen it before.  The knocking intruded again, mild but persistent.

“Coming,” Max answered, her throat clearing involuntarily as she spoke for the first time in what she realized had probably been hours.  Max had stayed in loose formation with Joyce and David after she had arrived at the gravesite until the gathered dispersed.  Max had no memory of the planning by nature of using the photo and had been surprised to see in the program that, supposedly, Chloe had requested no wake.  Seemed unlike her, Max knew, since the Chloe she had only begun to learn all over again this week would have wanted her mourners to thrash in her honor.  If she had to bet, it was David and Joyce that didn’t want a wake.  Max sighed internally; since she had arrived at a funeral an hour after the death, she’d have to ask someone if she wanted to know more.

The knocking again, more forceful but not yet demanding.

“ _Coming_ ,” Max said louder, but hoping not with an attitude.  Today was about Chloe, today she was the everyday hero, and Max didn’t want anyone thinking of her as being angry or petty.  _Chloe was a hero, Chloe had saved Arcadia Bay, Chloe was –_

Max pulled open the door and blinked her confusion away.  In the hallway was Warren Graham, standing beside Dana Ward.  Max looked wordlessly from one to the other, hoping again her expression didn’t make her seem snotty or ungracious.

Warren shifted awkwardly between his feet; it was Dana who spoke first.

“Hey Max,” she began gently, “I was letting Trevor up and Warren said he wanted to talk with you.  I hope it’s okay…?”

Max was grateful that the question just hung there like a poorly thrown curveball her dad taught her to spot; it reminded her how to hear words, to process them, to answer them. She sighed her relief and tried to smile.  “Thanks, Dana, I appreciate it.”

Both Dana and Warren visibly relaxed that they hadn’t intruded.  Dana, more at ease, reached her hand up and gently covered Max’s small left shoulder.  “I wish I could have been there today.  Chloe… we weren’t super close, but I remember her going here.  I _liked_ her, she was… she was a badass.  I wish I knew her when she was a girl, like you did.”

Max smiled again, like a gratitude simulator.  _When she was little_ , Max repeated back to herself.  _They all know Chloe was a childhood friend, and that’s it.  And if they even heard of me as Chloe’s friend before I moved back, they only know me as the shitty friend that abandoned her here_ …

“Thank you, Dana.  I think Chloe would have liked that too.”  She knew nothing else to say, she realized.  She wanted to accept condolence, she wanted to be _consoled_ , she realized.  She loved… had loved Chloe.  More than she ever thought she could have, not the way she did as a child, and more than she thought she could have in just a week.  She realized she had orbited David and Joyce waiting to receive that sympathy, the comfort that came to those closest to the deceased, but it had never come.  And she felt her eyes well, realizing standing here that it wasn’t _going_ to come.  Nobody that knew her, or knew Chloe apart from her, understood them to have been anything other than estranged childhood friends.

The absurdity made her want to slam the door shut on their faces, but – _no.  Today is about Chloe.  Chloe is the hero of the piece, Chloe is the center of the action, I’m just a stupid girl with a camera who fucked around with time and fate_.  The thoughts forced her to hold herself in place, try to force the corners of her lips up into at least a partial smile.  A deep breath pulled the tears back behind her eyelids before they could break loose.

“Hey Max,” Warren hesitated.  Max took a slow breath in and met his eyes.  Waiting for him to speak was better than speaking herself, and far better than thinking.  But when he faltered, she realized she’d have to drag him to it at least a little.

“Hi Warren,” she efforted a smile.  Some was genuine; Warren had been her closest friend at Blackwell since she’d shown up, but that had been a long time ago last week.  The rest of the smile she forced, instinctively wanting to live up to the stage of mourning those she knew would expect of her.  It wasn’t made easier by the realization of Warren’s intention.  She had lived it already this week, after all.

“Hey Max,” he repeated, running his left hand behind his head in a nervous manner.  “I came by because I wanted to ask you if you might want to go to the _Planet of the Apes_ drive-in marathon in Newberg tomorrow.”

Max surprised herself with a weary smile; yes, it was just what she thought it would be.  She took a deep breath, gripping the side of her door with her left hand to steady herself.  Warren read her smile with a look of alarm, and quickly scrambled to continue.

“Not, like, a date, I’m not trying to ask you on a date right after your friend’s… after today,” he begged, “it doesn’t have to be just us, we could get a carpool going and maybe it would just be a break from the week, is all.”

“Warren, that’s really nice,” Max measured her words with care and politeness that would make her mother proud, “but I think I’m still way too brain-drained after this week to try to have fun.”

Max had been squeezing the door harder while trying to keep her composure, only to relax it for a moment.  That had been more honest than she had even meant for it to be when she started speaking.  But Warren wasn’t deterred.

“I get that, no worries.  I just thought you might need to get away from yourself for a bit.  Y’know, take a few hours after all this horrible shit, let some good old movies make you smile and laugh –”

_Like I haven’t done in years!_

Chloe’s voice seared through Max’s brain like a hot poker, and she felt like the wind had been knocked out of her.  _NO!_ Max’s mind recoiled, and without realizing it, she swatted the inside of her door with a closed fist, holding it open against her shoulder.  She heard Chloe’s breaking, halting voice with total clarity; Chloe had just said these things this morning.  _No!_ the protest came again.  _Chloe doesn’t have to cry, Chloe’s the hero of the piece_ …

Letting her eyes relax open, Max saw Warren peering at her with his mouth open.  She hated it at once.  Not him, not really, but that stupid slack-jawed look.  It meant people could _tell_.  She summoned every ounce of will she had to start breathing again, to meet Warren’s eyes, to project warmth and gratitude there.

“I’m just… I’m going to go see Chloe’s mom again tomorrow, is all,” Max rallied herself, “Joyce could use the company.”

“Right, that will be awesome for both of you,” Warren answered, his voice betraying very little of his disappointment.  It was the same tone he’d had in his voice when she had seen him at the Vortex Club party “last night” and at the storm-ravaged Two Whales “this morning”.   The mild shade of self-pity.  She had hugged him, thinking at that instant how possible it was she would never see him again, but knowing only that she couldn’t let Chloe die.  The day had turned considerably since then.

“Hey Warren?” Max asked on an impulse.  The boy turned his eyes back to hers; his gaze had been shifting around the hall fishing for a way to react to rejection.  “There is something you could do for me?  It would really make me feel better after… this week?”  
  
“Anything, Max, of course,” Warren spoke low, almost solemnly.  Whoever called him her ‘white knight’ would laugh to see him, Max was sure.

“You should really go ask Brooke to go with you.  Just the two of you,” Max forced herself to smile, to unclench the muscles that stiffened at his reminder of Chloe’s final moments with her at the lighthouse.  “I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you stuff like this, like there are rules?  But I think she really likes you.  You two have so much in common.  It would really make me smile to know two of my friends were happy despite everything…”

Max trailed off, looking up into Warren’s eyes.  Hoping he couldn’t see them for the cold calculating things she felt like they’d appear.  She wasn’t lying; it would be nice to know that Warren and Brooke hit it off.  She was pretty and smart and for everything that confused the hell out of her from her invisible week, she at least felt certain about the whole Brooke-is-way-into-Warren question.  But she knew she also just wanted him to go and didn’t want to be mean about doing it. 

“Yeah,” Warren agreed hesitantly, “yeah.  You should be with Joyce, she… I mean, I didn’t really know Ch-Chloe that well, but you and she go back…”

Max shut her eye as Warren trailed off, grateful that he had conceded the point even if she wasn’t sure he’d read everything between the lines.  She focused on her breathing.  She thought she’d wanted consolation about Chloe, had felt indignant about it thinking about her funeral.  But here on the verge of Warren trying to honor her grief she just felt nauseous, almost repulsed.  She’d grieved Chloe twice the night before.  Once when Jefferson shot her and she woke up in the sick bastard’s Dark Room, and once again when she’d unwittingly put herself back there in her bid to save Chloe from the storm, only to find Chloe having once again been murdered by Jefferson.  But she’d known, _known_ that she still had hope of seeing her again, moves to make, with time literally in her hands.

“I’ll tell Joyce you said hello,” Max cut him off briskly, trying to hold a smile she knew couldn’t possibly look sincere.  She concentrated on keeping her voice from quavering.  “I really appreciate you thinking of me.  And I know Chloe would be grateful you were worried about her mom.  You enjoy the movies.”

Max started to close the door, thought better of it, and leaned out to give Warren a brief hug.  Whatever else he wanted to be, she still thought of him as a friend.  Hopefully for anything more than that she could keep his eye turning back to Brooke.  A gentle pat on the back and a smile later, and she was able to close the door at last.

“Fuck,” Max whispered in resignation, leaning against the inside of her door.  She cast a glare at her camera, still looking out of place as a sign of the week that didn’t happen.  Dana and Warren had been at her door no more than, what, ten minutes?  It felt like an hour, and enervation overcame the impulse to run out into the courtyard to photograph anything.  The sun had dipped low enough in the sky that it was almost twilight now.

“I’ll take it with me tomorrow,” she promised herself, negotiating with her conscious that she had nothing to fear for loving her art, that it was just too much in one day to worry about.  Losing energy and drive every step, Max shuffled her clothing off, down to her underwear and pulling on one of the few comfortable t-shirts she liked to sleep in.

It seemed stupid to her that she should, what, do homework?  Put on some music?  Chloe had saved the city that day, had died so everybody could live, surely Max had some better way to round out an evening after that than to re-watch _Orphan Black_.  Glancing around the room, she sat down on her bed.  Directly across from her was her guitar.  She wouldn’t play tonight, but she remembered earlier in the week she couldn’t wait to have Chloe come over and surprise her with knowing how.  _Not everything about Seattle had been a waste of our time_ , Max thought briefly.  Chloe would positively shit when she hears – _gone._

 _Chloe was gone_. 

The thought Max had shied away from all day snuck through all her defenses and stabbed her between the ribs.  Chloe wasn’t going to come over and be surprised that Max could play songs they both knew.  Max wasn’t just one more photograph away from seeing Chloe again tomorrow, _couldn’t_ be, because anything she changed would bring the tornado.  Chloe seemed sure of it, Warren had seemed sure of it, and Max had accepted it too.  She’d been wrong to save her, as alien and vile as the thought sounded in her mind, and Chloe making that choice for all of them had made her a hero.  But she was still just _gone_. 

Worst of all, Max realized, was that this was just… a day.  Somehow in the rhythm of reminding herself how Chloe had saved the town and ignore the detail that she had died in the process, Max realized on some level she thought that statement, those terms, brought a close to the story.  _But it didn’t_ , Max rebuked herself, _I’m still right here.  I’m in my bed.  I’m going to wake up tomorrow and Chloe will still be dead_.

The young woman breathed in slowly, held her eyes shut, waiting for tears, but they didn’t come.  Max didn’t know if it was shock, exhaustion, or terror that if they came again, they wouldn’t stop.  But she was still waiting for them to fill her eyes when she laid aside and fell gratefully asleep instead.


	2. Chapter 2

The horn of a lumber truck saluting the "Two Whales" diner startles Max, pulling attention up from the waffle she has been staring at blankly. The mid-morning sun is bright, casting a crisp shadow of the diner's gaudy sign on the street. Max tries to appreciate the sight of the waterfront, unbroken and unspoiled by a storm that has never come to this town; she feels mostly anxious instead.

_The nightmares have been awful for just being the first night_ , Max reflects. In one, she remembers Chloe shot to death in the face by Jefferson, except by the Lighthouse, except then it wasn't Jefferson it was Max herself. In another, she thought she heard Chloe call out for her just as she started focusing on the butterfly photo, too late. In another, David never came for her, and she felt only the stick of Jefferson's final needle.

Max remembers these nightmares in a whirl, like a flipbook of horrible images that plagued her through the night. She had been so disoriented she didn't even clearly remember having woken up and taken the bus downtown, but she knows she is here to meet with Joyce. There are things she wants to say, but the words aren't forming in her mind to say any of them. Instead, she focuses on the amazing Belgian waffle Joyce has prepared for her and must have set before her while Max was lost in thought.

"I'll sit with you in a second," Joyce has said, now Max remembers, "the diner always needs some attention". The young woman is amazed that Joyce has already come back to work after losing Chloe, but she also reminds herself the deep reservoir of perseverance that Joyce has shown for as long as Max has known her. The ghost of a thought runs through Max's mind – " _… and she did_ …"; Chloe's voice of course, advocating for her mother's life so forcefully. _It really was just yesterday_ , Max reminds herself in awe and sorrow, _at least for me_.

The student fidgets with her sweater, wondering if she should have dressed up more to see Joyce. _Don't be stupid Max, this isn't a funeral_. She looks again at her waffle. It's covered with a raspberry glaze and whipped cream, the raspberry showing as almost deep crimson settling into the crevasses of the baked confection. Max stares at it, hypnotized, until a voice interrupts her.

"So sorry I wasn't able to get back to you sooner," Joyce smiles at her, sitting across from her. It's the same booth she and Chloe had chosen days earlier when Chloe "pledged allegiance" to Max and her power. The thought pangs Max's heart for a moment, before she swallows nervously.

"Don't… don't worry, I know you're busy," Max says, but as she peers around, she notices almost no noise or activity in the diner all the sudden.

"I can always handle the diner, Max," Joyce assures the young student.

"I know, I… I remember," Max catches herself, breaking up the first hints of her own smile. She is thinking of having watched Joyce ride herd on Justin and Trevor, on the difficult regular patrons from the lumber and fishing communities, on the day she proved her powers to Chloe. Not for the first time Max knows it will take conscious effort not to refer to her personal week with Chloe, least of all to Chloe's mother or step... father. Even in Max's thoughts, she has the same reluctance she heard in Chloe's voice at the lighthouse; but if Chloe would accept David at the end, Max decides she will too. Even if he truly hasn't earned it in this timeline the way he had in Max's previous one.

Max gathers her focus with effort, feeling Joyce's patient gaze on her. "I wanted to ask about some things of Chloe's," she begins. Max has rehearsed the loose details of this; certain items of Chloe's she hoped to possess that hopefully wouldn't be of deep sentimental value to Joyce. The problem Max has estimated is how to ask for these effects at all, when as far as Joyce knows, Max has been such a poor and distant friend. "I… didn't stay close to her like I should have. After what… what happened, and talking to people, I know she had changed, a lot. I was hoping there might be…"

Feeling Joyce's unblinking gaze unsettles the student, and she falters. Joyce's smile is still there, but Max feels a cold scrutiny underneath it. "… I mean, if there were any things of Chloe's, things she owned, or wore, that I could hold on to. It's the only way I'll have to get to know her as she wa… as the person she became after I moved away."

Having finally spat out the mild bullshit she has rehearsed, Max breathes easier for a moment. It was only a couple things, really, maybe Joyce wouldn't care about –

"Well, I think we can find something Max," Joyce answers smoothly, her gaze not yielding, "but it will have to wait until after my double today. I think I'm off again on Monday in fact."

"You're working a double?" Max asks in surprise, "I mean, after… do they really need..?"

Joyce barks a cold laugh, briskly sliding back out of the booth as she refastens her apron. "Max, 'need' isn't the point. The diner is my responsibility all the time, now."

Max feels a chill of confusion at Joyce's bluntness. Suddenly she's aware that the light mix of diners are all staring at her, none eating. "Your…"

"Yes, Max. My responsibility. The thing I have to take care of. Because it's all I have to take care of now, sweetie."

The air goes out of Max's lungs. Suddenly Joyce's eyes are a cruel frost. The smile set below them is hollow.

"You decided that for me, didn't you? When you killed my little girl?"

Horror swamps Max. All the diners are gone suddenly. The diner is dark, and the wind is suddenly savage against the windows outside, just like the brief visit Max paid this place before the storm. Her eyes whirling in confusion, Max settles on her breakfast plate. The deep crimson in the waffle is no longer raspberry, maybe it never was.

"What do you think happens to me after that, Max? I work. This diner is my only child now, thanks to you. I'm sorry if I can't just drop that and fetch you some trinkets –"

 

*****

 

Max gasped as she woke in her seat, startled. The thrum of the diesel engine reassured her of time and place; the bus of course. On her way into town to have some real life version of the conversation she'd had nightmares about the night before and again while dozing on the bus into downtown from Blackwell.

The student afforded herself a small stretch and yawn to clear the remains of sleep from her mind and body. She tugged self-consciously at the blazer she had put on in a flustered decision that morning. It all felt too casual, too soon, to wear her "normal" clothes. Having come back to this timeline, this track through history and arriving at a funeral had been surreal but it had also involved no conscious choice on Max's own part. That poor, ignorant version of herself that knew nothing of the week that Max had lived, had been had put on that dress, put on that deer necklace; but Max as "herself" hadn't made those small steps, the ritual gestures of shared grief.

So for Joyce, today, she felt obliged to dress up a little. It couldn't be the dress, and it certainly would not be that necklace, but the outfit she wore for her Blackwell interview felt respectful. And for Joyce… well, a great deal had already been given for Joyce this week. Max knew Chloe might laugh at her preppy look for Joyce's benefit, but Max shook it off. Chloe only had herself to blame if Max's big takeaway from the week was "honor Joyce Price".

Max braced herself against the seatback in front of her as the bus rumbled to a halt at the waterfront. It was a few blocks walk to Chloe's house from here, and unlike in nightmares, Joyce wasn't already back at the diner. _Sooner begun is sooner done_ , Max recited to herself, something her father said about any difficult task. But she found the ritual unnecessary. As daunted as she was by seeing Joyce and David as "herself", she also was anxious to go about her task, and although she had been seated several rows back, she was up and out of her seat quickly enough to be out the door first.

She had to get the necklace.

_I need her bullets_ , Max pleaded to no one. She had instantly adored Chloe's necklace, even though she hadn't commented. It was so striking, so defiant… everything Max wasn't. Or hadn't been? She wasn't sure yet if enough about herself had changed to deserve to give up the past tense. She didn't feel bold or daring like Chloe, despite the choices and risks she had taken. But more than just being so cool, Max needed to have it. It was… it _is_ …

_It's a piece of her_ , she admitted. When she had found them cast aside on Jefferson's desk, she had retrieved them at once rather than leave them in that unholy place. And she had felt that connection to Chloe, that sense of purpose, come from slipping the bullet necklace over her head. Last night in her own room, she had reached up to her neck expecting to find them before remembering; and this morning waking up in this world without Chloe for the second time, Max craved that sense of connection. Yesterday – _my_ _yesterday_ , Max corrected – she had a mission to get Chloe back to this world. Today her mission was to start going on in a world without her. The necklace would help, she hoped.

As Max settled into a brisk walk, she again rehearsed what she meant to say. Joyce had already given her a box of keepsakes; she had seen it in her room. But they were all, for the most part, mementos of Chloe's past, back to and including before Max had left for Seattle. But almost nothing to remember who Chloe had _become_ , and that would not do at all. The problem, Max knew, was that there was no reason for Joyce to know she'd want things like that. Not "this" Joyce. This Joyce had no longer ever talked to Joyce about Chloe's grief or anger, or heard Max stick up for her. _That_ Joyce would have known. Instead, she was sharing childhood tokens of her lost daughter with Chloe's childhood friend, but Max needed to capture as much of the girl she met last week, the girl she fell in…

_Never mind_ , Max decided. _I can make Joyce understand_.

Max reflexively reached across her body to hold her right bicep, tightening her left arm across her chest. Her mother called it a "tick", a nervous habit, and occasionally chided her for it, that she looked like her left half was trying to keep her right half from running away, making her look insecure. Max never really saw it as something to change about herself since most of the time that was true. During those first few months without Chloe in Seattle, Max had decided that she wasn't going to punish herself for feeling insecure or anxious, as long as she had an idea of why she did. Sometimes that was hard, like when she hadn't wanted to enter the photo contest that felt like a lifetime ago. Today, it was easy – Max was afraid of Joyce Price.

Her gait slowed a bit as the house came into view up the shallow hill. She drew a short, frustrated breath. _Max you were in your teacher's psycho torture dungeon and nearly murdered_. It felt silly and wrong to be "afraid" of a woman who was like another mother to her in context, but it didn't make the feeling go away. Joyce had told her last week, _her_ week, that she hoped she'd be a good influence on Chloe. It seemed like a mixed bag. Had Max inspired Chloe to heroically choose to die to save Arcadia Bay? That sounded nice but Max doubted it very much. But she _had_ without question been the _way_ Chloe had chosen to die, and as a result Max couldn't help but feel that meant she had let Joyce down.

The thought, as much as she wanted to shake it, carried Max all the way to the front door of the still half-painted home. _It's too quiet here_ , Max thought, her eyes snapping up toward Chloe's window. This was far too much like that alternate timeline; she had come here and looked to Chloe's window hopefully before learning of the crippling accident that had so totally damaged her, and had sat in the boxed up, abandoned room that normally had Chloe's presence seeping through every crack and seam. _She's not there, again_ , was Max's mournful realization.

_Psycho teacher torture basement_ , Max thought, summoning the will to face Chloe's mother, and knocked on the door.

 

*****

 

Max shifted in her seat at the dining room table. Seconds turned to hours in her mind as Joyce flew around the kitchen. Everything was strange and wrong but also, Max understood, natural. From the moment Joyce had opened the door she projected something too…

_Fake_ , Max reluctantly recognized, _like she had to bolt that smile on with a socket wrench_.

It was hardly a surprise; Max had seen Joyce's grief before. Had seen it in herself and others. There was a compulsion in people to be as extra normal as they could be when the world expected, was even waiting for them, to come apart. But it still hurt Max to see. Joyce was dressed in clothes like Max almost never saw her, jeans and a US Army branded sweatshirt that was too big for her. David's, most likely. But as a child and since coming back to Arcadia Bay Max mostly saw Joyce in her uniform for the Two Whales. Or dressed for mourning.

"Now I know I still have that tea," Joyce assured, picking through this and that cupboard as Max tapped her foot. "You'd just love it, Max. Chloe and I found it in a little shop when we went over to Corvallis to see a friend of hers play football if you'd believe that."

Max hated herself for it by she winced hearing Chloe's name like that. _She makes it sound like she's waiting for her to… to get out of the shower or something_. She eyed the coffee pot; it was mostly full and still warm. Max was nervous enough as is without extra caffeine but if she had to watch Joyce flit around the kitchen breezily looking for tea another second –

"Coffee would be fine, too, Joyce," Max interrupted, and immediately regretted it. Something went out of Joyce immediately. To Max she looked nearly automated as she nodded in agreement and gave up the search to pour Max a cup of coffee.

Abashed, Max tried to salvage the moment. "But I do like tea…"

"No, Max, you're right," Joyce sighed, bringing Max the requested coffee. The younger woman noticed Joyce hadn't bothered to pour one for herself. She kicked herself mentally; Joyce was talking about Chloe's tea because it kept Chloe in the house, in the kitchen, and in life. Max had psyched herself up to the singular goal of coming here so much that she'd forgotten to even listen and be human.

Just a few days ago, from her perspective, Max would have probably just rewound without a thought. A slip back in time to correct yet another thoughtless word or awkward decision. But she certainly couldn't do that now, not knowing what she'd almost caused, and not after what Chloe had given up reversing it.

"Joyce, I'm…"

"I said it's okay, Max," Joyce asserted, smiling but emphatic. "Honestly I don't even think I liked the tea that much. I liked spending the time with Chloe getting it. She thought Rachel would like it… I remember when we got home, I made some for David and, oh, his face was precious."

Max tried to imagine the gruff, unyielding security guard casually drinking hot tea, and allowed a smile. Joyce caught it and returned it, much to Max's relief. At least David is something from last week Max didn't have to pretend or edit; his role at her school made it believable she'd know his personality a little even if Joyce didn't know how much interaction Max had with him. "I don't think I could see him even wanting to be relaxed," Max offered nervously. Joyce's smile deepened momentarily, but then faded.

"I wish Chloe had your sense of humor about him," Joyce's voice and cheer audibly fell off mid-sentence. Max tapped the side of her mug unconsciously, unsure of an angle into this conversation. _Because it's not a fetch-quest, Max_ , she scolded herself. _Be there for her, and she'll be there for you_.

"Joyce, can… can you tell me about her?"

The question surprised Max hearing it from her own voice. She knew Chloe, right? As well as anyone? Rachel had been closer to her in some ways than anyone and had known her most recently; Joyce was her mother. But Max and Chloe had been best friends as children and in just a few days they had become… more, Max knew. Wanted to be so much more. And Max had _been there_ , had seen Chloe in a way that nobody else ever would get to, had seen how brave and selfless…

_Stop_ , Max cautioned herself, _you can't right now._

Veering clear of the emotional landmine, Max stumbled into the realization that spawned the question. She and Chloe had been apart for five years. Almost all by Max's choice. She knew Chloe, she… loved her. But there was also so much she _didn't_ know. Couldn't have, hadn't had time to ask her, let alone the courage. But Joyce had been there the whole time. Joyce knew so much that Max would

( _need, that I will need_ )

enjoy knowing about Chloe, how she had changed over the years, how she spent her time, how often she smiled, what _made_ her smile. Max didn't need to come up with a tale for why she wanted Chloe's bullets, or anything else, because it wasn't a tale – it was all part of knowing the girl she loved better, now that memories were all she was going to have.

"Max?" Joyce peered across the table at her daughter's friend, and Max realized she had just floated off in her thoughts after that unexpected question.

"I, uh. I never had – I never _made_ time to talk to her when I got back," Max confessed, "and I didn't… I wasn't the friend I should have been to her when I was away."

Joyce took a breath to protest; Max knew what she would say since in a way she already had, last week at the diner. It didn't change the guilt and would never touch the loss. She pressed ahead: "I want to know more about her. I don't want to hurt you, though, so if you can't –"

"I can," Joyce cut in, "I want to. I've spent days thinking about every moment she was here, every time she'd slam the door, or close the window at 2:00 AM because she thought I couldn't tell she had snuck out again. Things that David doesn't like to talk about and things that William…"

Here, Joyce's voice caught in her throat, "that William didn't get to see up close. Max, if you'd _let_ me pour it all out on you it would be a huge relief."

Max felt so very young and small again looking at Joyce's welling eyes. She felt her own begin to fill. She took both of Joyce's hands and smiled gratefully. Another request she didn't expect leaped forth.

"Please tell me. And please forgive me. I should have been here, I should have stayed in touch with her, and you, and maybe…"

"No, baby, don't," Joyce pulled Max's hands to the effect of pulling her to her feet and gracefully swung around the table to hug her. The mother held her close, not realizing at the time how it seemed like this was the first time Max had talked to her since Chloe had died. Joyce gently shushed Max's open tears as she surrendered and released her own.

 

*****

 

Max and Joyce sat together on Joyce's couch for nearly two hours, sometimes laughing or crying, as the mother told the girlfriend (Max wanted to claim this even though it caught in her mind every time… and of course Joyce wouldn't and couldn't know anyway) every story that came to mind. Not all of them were pleasant, Max could tell, but all of them were so essentially _Chloe_ she lapped them up.

At one point, David had stopped between going from the front door to the garage to hold his wife's hand. He had been taken aback when Max greeted him by first name – a casual ease that came from an intense week of arguing with him and then consoling him after he had rescued her from a psychopath – but hadn't corrected her or argued. Max was surprised at how muted and gentle he was with Joyce, how solicitous to offer to freshen coffee for them. There was something so different in his demeanor, but familiar –

_Guilty_ , Max realized, recognizing her own frequent emotional ground state. _He thinks he failed as a head of security._

Part of Max agreed, but the impulse was stronger to pity him. After a few polite acknowledgements he had gone. Joyce retuned to more anecdotes of Chloe, of Chloe and Rachel, of arguments. She lingered most on fleeting moments of warmth when Chloe had been like the young girl she had been before her father and Max had left her in their various ways.

After the two of them laughed at the image of Chloe and Rachel both dressed up as David for Halloween in 2011, the weight of loss crept back over them and sat down on their shoulders once more.

"Oh Max," Joyce breathed, "I know you wish you had been here. I wish you had too. But Chloe ha… had a passionate life, she had pain, but she knew love."

"I'm glad," Max nodded. "I just wish there had been more time to get to know her again. That's… that's part of why I'm here."

_This was the time_ , Max braced herself, meeting Joyce's curious eyes.

"I'm so glad you brought me that picture box. But I realized at the funeral… everything of Chloe's I have is from when we were so little. I wasn't here to know her when she went through so much change. Maybe some of it… maybe things might have been different in some ways? I don't know. But I wanted… I hoped that there were things I might be able to have of hers. Things that were part of who she was _now_. I don't know if I'm making sense."

Joyce took Max's hand in her own. "You're making perfect sense, Max. But I'm not sure what kind…"

Now the calculated lies: "I saw a picture of her that a friend of mine from school took. One of the skater boys Justin, I don't know if you met him. It was maybe a few months back before Rachel, uh, before she disappeared. Chloe was wearing this necklace…"

"Those damn rifle bullets!" Joyce recognized with a rueful expression. "I hated that damn necklace, but Chloe… Chloe loved it. I still hate to think where she even got those rounds, but I told her she was going to drop them on the stove and end up shooting up the kitchen… is that what you want, Max?"

"I… yes," Max tried to measure her interest, but her heart was racing. When she had left the Dark Room for the last time, she had donned that necklace intent on saving Chloe's life. Having it had filled her with a certainty that she would see Chloe again. More than that, a feeling like Chloe was right beside her already. She craved that feeling above all else since she had gone to bed last night and all through the morning.

"I could just tell looking at it, it was really special to her, something like… like an identity. A totem," Max added that last, thinking randomly of the Tobanga at Blackwell.

"Max, I'll be honest, I've been afraid to touch it. They gave it… we brought it home on Monday night. I felt like I betrayed Chloe by not," Joyce faked a cough to steady her voice, "by not letting Chloe take it with her. But I didn't want her to have anything that reminded of all her pain. I wanted to get rid of it, but I feel like I'd be betraying her again, or…"

Max let Joyce's silence hang in the air for a moment. She felt incalculable relief; she had hoped Chloe hadn't been buried with it but hadn't _known_ for sure until now. "Maybe you did exactly what you should have. I hope… I think Chloe would want me to have something like that to remember her by."

_And Max Caulfield? Don't you forget about me._

It was Max who coughed to steady herself then, from another piercing memory of Chloe's voice. "Never," she whispered, grateful that Joyce hadn't noticed.

"Oh goodness, Max, Chloe would have been happy to have you here, if only because you always have a good answer!" Joyce blew out a breath and forced a smile as she rose from the couch. "Follow me upstairs, sweetheart, and we'll get that for you."

As Max rose to her feet to follow, she gave in to confused curiosity. "What do you mean by 'a good answer'?"

"Chloe… sometimes I think all she ever wanted was answers. Even when she was a little girl, she loved knowing things, how it worked, what it was for," Joyce took the stares in slow, nearly hypnotic pace as Max tailed closely. "She wanted to _know_. She wanted to know _how,_ and she wanted to know _why_. I think that's why things were so hard for her when…"

Max knew. When William had died. And, with an extra sting, when Max had left. And when Max had stopped answering her.

"She got so angry because it was so unfair and there was no _reason_ ," Joyce continued. "She wanted to know why her father died, she wanted to know why you had to move away. Why I… why I was able to fall in love again. And when Rachel disappeared, that was just the last straw, she wanted answers to that so bad you couldn't talk to her most days."

It made sense. Max couldn't tell Joyce that Chloe had gotten answers, at least about Rachel. That they'd found those answers together. But it wasn't _just_ Rachel.

Joyce opened Chloe's door and walked in as Max watched from the door before taking a tentative step inside. It hadn't _only_ been Rachel.

_Chloe wanted answers about_ me _. She didn't ask me the 'whys' and 'hows' but you could hear it. And my power, too. And the storm. She went and found those books, she wanted us to go test my power so bad._ Chloe had dived headfirst into the mystery of Max's rewind so quickly and hungrily; Max knew Joyce was right. That was Chloe's real addiction. The way she could make a shitty and unfair world make sense, probably.

And she wouldn't get most of those answers. Chloe may have found out about Rachel, and God knows nobody gets a straight answer about why they lost a loved one like William, but mysteries like how Max got her powers, and why… or why they'd apparently only caused harm… Chloe was gone without knowing any of those answers, not really.

But, Max realized, maybe I can find them for her.

"Here you go, Max," Joyce turned from Chloe's desk and stepped toward her second daughter, holding Chloe's bullet necklace uncomfortably. "You're right, she'd want you to have it."

Max tried not to clutch at it as she took the violent charm gently in hand but didn't hold back once she had it in grasp. Making sure of the fastening, Max looped it over her own neck for the second time. She didn't plan on letting it out of her possession again in life.

"I hope so, Joyce. And I'm sorry I wasn't here to help Chloe get answers when they might have helped her. And it sounds like she didn't really need me for that anyway, not with Rachel," Max offered, thinking she was reassuring. She managed to surprise herself with a pang of useless jealousy.

"Max, I know you are carrying around a lot, like you should have done something better or something else, for all these years. Lord knows I know that feeling. But I know that however good or bad Chloe's life could be these last five years you were never far from her thoughts. Know it for fact."

A wave of doubt washed over Max. "How can you, though? You didn't have any 'I miss Max' stories."

Joyce's face contorted for a moment like she was deciding something difficult, and then she smiled, the warmest smile since Max had come in. "Max, I can guarantee it. I can even prove it. I don't know if Chloe would approve or spit venom, but I found something that will help you get to know who she became better than any story I can dig around for."

Without waiting for reply, Joyce turned back to Chloe's desk and went into a different drawer. She brought out a worn, black spiral notebook. Max, who had kept a journal her whole life, recognized it for what it was instantly. It was unmistakably Chloe's own journal.

"Joyce, I don't know –" Max suddenly recoiled from the thought of reading Chloe's private thoughts, much as she longed to.

"You don't have to worry about it," Joyce cut her off. "Chloe has nobody to blame for me giving this to you, because I couldn't help myself and glanced at it the other day – it's literally _for you_."

Max felt utter confusion but reached for the offered notebook, nonetheless. Unable to resist a nosy nature, she opened to the first page and understood as soon as she saw the first two written words:

"Dear Max," the journal began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughtful criticism always welcome!


	3. Chapter 3

The sun draped the front quad of Blackwell Academy in the golden light of a setting sun. Max absently rubbed her right thigh against the dull throb of pain calling to the back of her mind. She had clumsily walked into the handrail to Blackwell's front stairs when she'd gotten off the bus. In her concentration, she hadn't done more than grunt before sitting beside those steps and staying there. But rather than distracted by a smartphone, it was the worn spiral notebook Joyce had given her, that Chloe had used as a journal. It was a repository of Chloe's thoughts and feelings, expressed as letter to Max that she had never sent. _Would_ never have sent, Max realized.

Max had been curled over it intently from almost the minute she had left the Price house. It had been hard to step back outside the door after hugging her "second mother" again. The home had a warm gravity to her, muted but not erased by Chloe's absence. _But Life Goes On, right?_ Max had coached herself as she turned down the sidewalk to go back to meet the bus again. She had waved away Joyce's offer to give her a ride; Max didn't think Joyce really wanted to visit Blackwell, perhaps not ever again.

_And boy, I didn't know the half of it_ , Max reflected, still flipping back to the beginning for what was going to be a third complete read. She thought she had gotten a sense of Chloe's problems with Blackwell during their week together; she'd had some idea it was a rough fit for Chloe from even right before they learned William had died. But reading it in Chloe's own voice was something else.

Max had thought to just glimpse at the pages again as she walked to the bus. She hadn't been planning to read it obsessively from the second she set her eyes on it again, winding her way back the path downtown, and on the bus, and likely weaving her way across Blackwell's campus to her dorm. That last was interrupted by the pain to her thigh as she collided with the rail, both startling and hurting her.

With a curse, the dazed student had sat down on the brick façade along the steps… and immediately lost herself back in the journal.

Had it been twenty minutes? An hour? Max didn't know other than that it had been long enough for the day to surrender its hopes and begin dropping the sun into the Pacific again. One of the few moments of distraction had come when she saw Warren's car pull up in front of the school. Brooke had gotten out and leaned against the car with her arms crossed. She had looked upset, but… striking, and Max couldn't help the instinct to want to capture that image backed by the dipping sun. Instead, Max remembered she hadn't brought her camera out that day. This fact should have surprised her since she was essentially never without it, but it just hadn't been on her mind to take any pictures with her focus on going to see Joyce. And now, with the journal, she didn't regret missing the moment.

Warren hadn't gotten out of the car, and after a few moments, Brooke stiffened and marched away without looking back. She hadn't acknowledged Max as she passed; Max had spared her a hesitant nod but no words, sensing the tension radiating out of the other girl. Brooke could show teeth, Max knew, and while she knew she'd want more information later, right then she wanted only the journal.

The journal…

_This is hard_ , Max admitted, reading again through Chloe's "introductory" letter. She knew that Chloe had been angry with her. She knew that she had _deserved_ that anger, had come to understand it quickly as her own walls of denial about Chloe's pain had come down. But it was still hard to read the mean, dismissive tone that Chloe had used with "her" in print. And it wasn't just this that hurt; Max had felt her breath rush out when she first read Chloe suggest a future where they would "kiss and make up"; they had done both.

Chloe had written a rush of letters describing the days that she first knew Rachel, and Max's heart ached with every colorfully written detail of their first adventure together. She could almost picture Chloe's face as she relished in the concert (Max wasn't familiar with the band, "Firewalk"), and she could imagine the anguish as she and Rachel had their first, early fight. Max's eyes widened when she read Chloe's admission that Rachel had started a literal forest fire, even as she hungered for more detail of how, or of why.

Max, in her imagination, stood at these events like an angel over Chloe's shoulder, or like a ghost in Chloe's head, bound to observe but not interact. Chloe, running favors for Frank and Frank's scary-sounding boss Damon (Max was surprised, after the week she had gone through, never to have heard of him) to make money. Chloe, making sure Rachel got to go on stage for her big performance only to be roped in alongside her. The mental picture of Chloe and Rachel's first, passionate kiss wounded Max despite herself, but she also couldn't help but feel warm inside at how Chloe described Rachel in general – the rush of life and connection she provided when Chloe'd felt so alone.

The rest felt so… heightened. Max wanted to hate herself all over again for being out of Chloe's life when Chloe had clearly gone through some insane shit and only had this imaginary Max to share it with. So, while it hurt to read Chloe's last letter from that weekend, it hardly felt unfair – "goodbye Max". Max hadn't given Chloe any other way to say it and hadn't given her any reason not to want to say it. So here she just had to sit with it.

She didn't cry, to her own mild surprise. The will was there, but at the same time she could also imagine Chloe sauntering up to her at the stairs, blowing off the melodrama with something like "forget about it, hippie, you hella made it up by saving my life one of those times. The second time, definitely." Max even allowed the quick fantasy a smile. Chloe loved her. All had been forgiven. Reading the journal stung but provided such a vivid light into Chloe's life in those missing years that Max didn't mind a single harsh word the longer she sat with it.

Chloe had kept writing after May 9th and the surreal confrontation with Arcadia Bay's crime boss and Rachel's birth mother, Max was happy to see. And as promised, they were no longer letters to Max. Chloe didn't keep up nearly the pace of that one long weekend and stopped altogether long before Max returned to the town. But that was good, too, Max understood. _You had Rachel with you_ , she smiled, unconsciously running the fingers of her left hand over Chloe's bullet necklace. _Do… do you have her with you now?_

That question shook Max from her reverie. Too loaded, too huge. She was forcing herself minute by minute to grapple with Chloe's death, but she wasn't ready to imagine her in an afterlife with her ex-girlfriend. Petty? Jealous? Max didn't care, it was easier to just not think about.

Chloe deserved to be happy. Whatever world she ended up in, isn't that what Chloe had said?

Max felt the slightest welling behind her eyes and quickly shook her head, brushed her hands through her hair as she closed the journal. Joyce hadn't given this to her to make Max feel more regret… at least Max wouldn't let the thought try to sink its fingers into her mind. Max had wanted to know more about Chloe and with this book, she would. It was a good thing.

_No, no more regret today_ , Max resolved. For Joyce, for Chloe, the rest of the day had to be about living it. Blackwell's academic quad was quiet on Saturdays anyway, is what Max had realized in the few weeks she had been here, but it was a heavier air and mood.

"I mean, obviously," she whispered to herself, here on a day sandwiched between two funerals for former students, the arrest of another student and the school's most famous professor. Max gathered her bag with the journal and stumbled to her feet. The damn handrail had really knotted her thigh. _Head on a swivel on the ice_ , she heard in her father's voice, advice from a youth hockey player. But he was right; it was time to pay more attention. This world had come at a hard cost and it wasn't so Max could start ignoring the people around her. Couldn't be that way. _I'll have to ask Warren what happened… or should I talk to Brooke?_

She sighed, despite herself. Taking an interest and putting herself out there had been a lot easier when she counted on her power to get her through the rough patches. Now she'd have to do it by herself.

That thought echoed in her mind as she turned to begin limping up the steps in the direction of the dorms, because as chance would have it, she saw Kate Marsh strolling alone up ahead. She was near the path back to the dorm, where Max had confronted David Madsen on her behalf. Now, as then, she struck Max's eyes as delicate. Not _frail_ , not as such, but Kate's gentle nature came out in her demeanor.

_I've got your back, no matter what happens_ , Max recalled. She had made the promise to Kate in one turn of the carousel of realities she had visited. A sense of purpose sped her steps as she went to join her friend. Kate seemed to be aimless, and her posture suggested she was cold. The air was cooling as evening came on, and the sky turning overcast, and the change in the weather only made the scene more uneasy to Max.

"Hey Kate," Max began as she slowed from brisk walk to match the other girl's amble around the quad, "how are you?"

It sounded so lame in her ears as she said it, Max bit her lip slightly. No matter how much she'd been through, it frustrated her that just talking still could make her feel like a helpless dork.

"Hello Max," Kate answered, with a smile that immediately reassured Max a little. Other than at the funeral, where Max still felt like nothing had been real, the last time she had seen Kate was in the hospital, recovering from a suicide attempt she had backed away from at the last moment. She supposed she was still holding her breath around Kate, waiting to see if the crisis had passed, or had taken a different form. "I just wanted to get some air while it was still nice. The forecast said rain tonight."

"Yeah, it was nicer when I left," Max began, kicking herself internally. _The weather, this is the actual weather we are talking about right now_ , she chided herself internally. Nonetheless: "I just thought… I just wanted to see if you were okay."

"Oh, sweetie," Kate's returning gaze took on an air of disbelief, "you're worried about if I'm okay? I should be asking you. If I found out my best friend from junior high died, I'd be heartbroken."

"Oh, I… I guess we both should?" Max appreciated that Kate would worry about her, but some corner of her mind couldn't shake a sudden intense interest in Kate's well-being. Chloe and Max had reset the week to Monday to save a town, but that wasn't far enough to save Kate what she had gone through. The photographer realized what it was about that image of Kate slowly strolling the grounds under graying sky had caught her attention. In "Max's week", Kate had, for good or ill, been the center of the campus' attention for days. Her suicide attempt and in turn the slow revelations of how she had been violated for Jefferson's perverse sense of art had been the "big news" of the Blackwell week. This week, the _new_ week, however, was different as Max was deciphering from the signs around campus. It had been all about the murder of Rachel Amber, and of Chloe, and the involvement of Arcadia Bay's wealthiest son and its most famous one. And where had that left Kate after what they had done to her? That question was what had picked at Max's mind when she had mentally framed the picture she might have taken of Kate if she'd had her camera to hand.

"There's enough to go around," Kate answered, snapping Max out of reflection. Kate reached in for a hug, which Max briefly hesitated but then returned.

"I know, Kate, but," Max began, easing back from her friend's arms, "what happened to you was…"

The devout student shook her head. "Max, people believe me. Most of them, anyway, Nathan still has a lot of friends. But I was luckier than… than others."

Her hesitation registered. Kate wasn't sure how to talk about Chloe's death to Max, that much Max was used to already. But she didn't sound very convinced about her own well-being.

"What was done to you doesn't become okay just because of anything that happened to someone else, Kate," Max urged gently, "please, if you need… need anything, or anyone, talk to me. I'm always going to be here for you now."

"That's so sweet of you, Max," Kate smiled, warmer this time. "I promise, if I need help, I'll ask. You do the same?"

"I will, Kate. Are you going back up to the dorm?"

Kate nodded in the affirmative. The sky had mostly filled in with clouds as the sun pressed deeper against the horizon.

The two young women walked side by side back along the sidewalk toward the dorm. The dark was already settling into the east, obscuring the now overcast sky. Max felt Kate's continual glances as they measured the steps to their living space. Max bit her lip anxiously; to her, Kate felt all too much like… well, like Kate's pet rabbit, Alice. Something soft and fragile, to be nurtured and protected. The feeling was terrible. Max had witnessed Kate's resilience firsthand. Even at the literal edge, Kate had shown fire over how Blackwell had treated her, and at the hospital she had shown a wealth of kindness and forgiveness that had made Max feel… small, petty. Kate wasn't a helpless waif and Max knew better than to make that mistake.

And yet… the instinct was strong. As they rounded the corner into the dorm quad, Max's eyes kept climbing toward the rooftop. The masonry landing against the backdrop of a gray sky, just like it had been on Tuesday, had a grip on Max's attention stronger than gravity. _Yeah_ , Max corrected herself _, tough or not, I'm not going to start turning my back on her_.

Even the toughest person wouldn't do well if her friends weren't there when they were needed most.

Upstairs, Kate opened her room door and, with a tentative step, Max followed her in. The photographer's heart lightened in immediate surprise.

The curtains weren't drawn shut. Her mirror wasn't covered. To Max's most breath-catching delight, Kate's music stand was open with a piece of sheet music on it. For a brief, delirious moment Max didn't remember the grief and pain of the last two days she had lived, not the death, not even Jefferson's Dark Room. The last time Max had stood in this room, it was dark, somber. Kate's dangerous and declining mental state permeated. This, at last, was a true and visceral _win_ that Max felt from the world that remained after Chloe had given her life to gain it; Kate was hurting, and still confused, yes – but she was no longer on the brink.

"Max, are you okay?" Kate had turned to close the door behind Max as her friend had entered, and only now had caught Max's stunned expression.

"I'm… yes, I'm okay," Max marveled in reply, "I'm just really glad to see you are playing your violin again."

Kate nodded in understanding. "So am I. I couldn't play, I couldn't hear it anymore. After what happened to your… to Chloe, though, something my dad said made me start again. I was a little nervous it might upset you, honestly."

Max had glanced up when Kate started to refer to Chloe anonymously, and was grateful that Kate had been willing to say her name.

"It would never upset me to hear you play," Max assured. This room was filling her with a serene calm minute by minute. "What did your dad tell you?"

"Oh, it's probably silly," Kate laughed nervously.

"There's always time to be silly, what was it?" Max smiled back, finding Kate's eyes. Kate was technically about a week older than Max, but Max felt so much like an older sister with her now.

"It was, just, he said 'Kate, using your talent is like a hug from your best friend, you never realize how much you needed it until you're doing it'."

"That is so precious," Max admitted, "I hope that's true for me, too".

She hadn't meant to admit to a fear, but the words ran out on their own.

"It will be, Max," Kate said, reaching gently to squeeze Max's hand, "what you can do is so special, and I know it will help you heal."

"I mean, I can't even do it anymore, not if anyone would be hur…" Max trailed off as she saw her friend's quizzical expression. _Oh shit_ , Max scolded herself, _of_ course _she doesn't mean that, she means my camera_. "I just… nobody ever got shot after you played your violin. I was just taking a picture and… I don't even have it anymore."

It felt stupid to even say; of course, Max didn't still have the butterfly photo. It had all felt so innocent a week ago. To Kate, she knew, merely having lost the photo might sound like artistic regret, or the bitter irony of having lost Chloe and not having the picture Max had taken just moments before. For Max, though, the absence of that photo cut a lot deeper. She hadn't lost it; she'd forbidden herself to have it, abandoned it. Too much of a reminder, and far too much temptation. Chloe hadn't given her life for Max to lose her nerve and try to get her back and the whole disaster in motion again.

"You'll take more beautiful pictures, I promise," Kate's voice soothed. "Never know when something will need your special gift to shine."

Double meaning was becoming Max's second nature, and for once played right into it: "I don't know how special it can be, if it I can't use it to help people."

Kate rolled her eyes and Max was at once chagrined but also pleased to see Kate this animated compared to the lead up to her suicide attempt. "Max, you don't know how many people you have helped already or can help in the future. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy!"

Max blinked in confusion at the almost sing-song cadence with which Kate had said that last. "What?"

" _Hamlet_! It's been such a dark week and that play is… not less dark, but I wanted to get started on it with Ms. Hoida coming back this week. I remember it was on the syllabus."

"Ms. Hoida? What? I've been kind of sleepwalking this week." It was close enough to the truth anyway.

"She is coming back from leave on Monday, Mr. Wells said. It's okay if you didn't notice sweetie," Kate offered, "and he said there would be someone to come in for Mister… uh, to take over the photography class."

Max nodded. Obviously, there'd have to be someone, right? But what Kate had quoted still rang in her ear. "More things in heaven and earth than dreamt of in my philosophy, huh?"

"That's what Shakespeare says anyway," Kate smiled.

Max's philosophy could dream of quite a bit already – like time travel, like literal spirit animals of some kind. Like a storm, and that last thought brought Jefferson's sick voice into her head, the way he'd looked at her like a lab rat and pondered that "something weird" was going on with her. Max had already decided she wanted to get to the bottom of the mystery of what happened to her and Chloe last week, but at this prompt she realized that it's the _world_ that was bigger and weirder. Or at least Arcadia Bay? She'd heard theories on the apocalyptic feel of the week from Ms. Grant, Samuel, fellow students. It would be a mistake to think that she herself was the only thing different that needed explained.

"Thanks, Kate," Max smiled with the new perspective. Searching for a mystery unique to her seemed daunting, trying to explain all the strangeness she had seen around the _whole town_ though? That sounded more… plausible somehow. Something with documents, with references, with witnesses? Photographs? Max smiled at the idea that it might be as simple as her camera being useful in finding it. And then wondered ruefully if it was just because she liked the idea that she was just a small player in all of this and not Super Max. Either way, a fresh optimism came over her to the mission she'd chosen at Chloe's house – to find an Answer to all this mystery. "Hey, I'm going to head back to my room. Is that okay?"

"Of course, Max," Kate was unsure of what had brightened Max's face for that moment but wasn't of any mind to discourage it. Max had come here worried about _her_ after all. "I'm fine, I promise, and it was sweet of you to walk with me. Are you going tomorrow?"

The question was cautious; Rachel's funeral, Kate meant. Max nodded in confirmation. "I didn't know her, but Chloe… she and Chloe cared for each other very much, so I want to. For Chloe."

Kate stroked Max's arm with an understanding smile. "I'm going too, so if you need anything…"

"Thank you, Kate," Max affirmed, and turned toward the door, "I'm going to call my mom and have an early night to get ready."

And with that, she left the reassuring friend for the evening. A few quick steps later, and Max was in her own room. She realized with a sigh that she'd also meant to check in on Brooke. _But maybe I really should ask Warren first_ , she considered, and deferred the entire matter. She wasn't a bad or disinterested friend just because she was out of gas for the day.

She set Chloe's journal down first, right by her computer, and slowly circled her room for a moment. The quiet started to overwhelm, and she quickly turned her stereo on and let Alt+J wash silence out of the air.

_This is only the beginning_ , she admitted to herself. The decompressing feeling of now a full day or more with no looming threat, no tornado bearing down, no homicidal narcissist or his minion hunting her… was a disappointment. Over the grief and loss and the anxiety of facing Joyce, Max had expected to start feeling _better_ , but as she had the night before, the sense of banal "sameness" was taking hold, that the threat was passed, that the adventure, whatever it was, had ended.

_Except not yet_ , Max rebuked herself. This wasn't going to be over until she had the Big Answers, or as much as she could get. The ones Chloe had wanted; about Rachel, about Max herself. Max didn't know if there was anything else to learn about Rachel or if it was even her business, but answers about herself? She kind of felt owed some.

The rain Kate mentioned had finally blown in and opened. The sound made Max consider a shower as she started to change, but she opted to just slide into a pair of pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. The thought of facing more people tonight was too much. She knew she couldn't, wouldn't retreat into herself; Chloe hadn't given her life for this world just for Max to hide from it. But it was enough today. Instead, Max was turning her thoughts back to what books she might find that could help her understand her power and the trouble it had caused when her phone rang.

"Hello, mom, I was just about to call you," Max answered. It had felt like a hundred years since she'd heard her voice. Her 'other self' had talked to her, a couple times it seemed, and texted with her following Chloe's death as Max had discovered perusing her phone before going to visit Joyce that morning. But Max herself hadn't been aware of it and therefore hadn't heard her mother's voice since before… everything. Max felt her eyes welling without expecting it, wanting only to tell her mother everything and ask her to say it would all be okay.

Madness, of course, Max knew. She didn't expect she could ever really tell anyone the truth without branding herself a lunatic. And the idea, she realized, that it would be attributed to grief for Chloe felt like an insult.

"Max, honey, how are you? I thought you might call last night," her mother asked. "I hope you aren't upset with us. There just wasn't any chance for us to get down there."

"No, mom, it's fine," Max answered by rote. It only just now occurred to her to be confused that her parents hadn't been there. And the occurrence angered her a little. It most certainly _wasn't_ fine after even just a few seconds to absorb it, but Max soldiered forward nonetheless, "I know… you can't do everything."

"You are so grown up," Vanessa said. If she'd heard anything skeptical in Max's tone, she gave no sign. "I wish we could have been there. Chloe was so precious. It's so awful."

Max idly rubbed the side of her forehead, tiring of platitudes. She wanted comfort from her mother but couldn't seek it, so grimaced at the thought of what felt like such trite expressions of grief. "There's a lot of things we all wish."

"Arcadia Bay was such a special place with you two running around together. I'm sorry you didn't stay close. Maybe I should have… I don't know," Vanessa stopped herself, although Max was curious what she might have meant. To apologize for moving? To have browbeat her into calling Chloe? What did it really matter now?

"It's still a special place," Max answered. It had damn well better be, to have cost so much. As she paced around with the found, she found her hand idly flipping through Chloe's journal again. _Not too early to start obsessing_ , she wryly thought.

"How is Joyce?"

"She's… brave, mom. She's so brave. I visited her today, I needed to ask her about Chloe."

"She's always been an incredible woman. I remember her after William died, she…" Vanessa trailed off. Max had flipped the journal open again, half-listening. A sketch of the Blackwell administration building caught her eye, words accusing Max of having decided she was done with Chloe.

"She's the strongest person I know," Max cut in. Something about talking to her mother leaned too hard on reliving a grief everyone else had a head start on over her. This wasn't what she hoped for.

"I can't even imagine what she's feeling," her mother went on, "that animal is in jail at least. I'm glad the Prescott name wasn't too much for at least that. Probably for the best. Stuff like that isn't supposed to happen in Arcadia Bay."

_For Rachel, that means burning a fucking forest down_ … Max's eyes landed on the phrase.

"Nathan Prescott is just a… puppet," Max commented.

"I don't care if he's a puppet or not, if anything ever… if he had. Honey you were so close…"

"Mom, I'm fine. Please don't."

"I can't help it," her mother's voice broke a little. It was such a shift; Max realized her mother was holding back just like she was. "You… I don't know how Joyce is holding it together. You're my only baby. Chloe was Joyce's. I don't know how I could even cope for a minute if… I would want to tear the whole world apart if you were just…. just gone."

Max's eyes welled again, but with gratitude. Not that her mother cared for her safety, but for this vulnerable moment. After a chasm of time since before reuniting with and losing Chloe, it had felt like her parents were just strangers, but now she felt her mother like a real person again. Like Joyce. Like _mom_.

"I'm not gone, mom, I promise. But Arcadia Bay doesn't have a magic spell around it to keep bad stuff from happening. This happened, the forest fire happened, Mr. Price's accident," Max recounted. Arcadia Bay wasn't a special, peaceful place at all. Worth fighting for, Max hoped it was since so much had been given, but safety? Enchantment? Those were long gone.

"I don't remember a fire," her mother answered, inconsequentially. She had recovered from the release of tension about what, Max realized, felt to her like a near-death experience for her daughter. This was back to an almost trivial small talk voice. "When was there a forest fire?"

Max was confused herself. She didn't really know what Chloe had meant either. The date on that entry was 5/8/10, and Max felt like she should have heard of it. "It's… it's nothing, I don't know, I just saw something in Chloe's journal – Joyce gave it to me – about a forest fire a few years ago?"

"I don't remember anything about a forest fire, I would think your father would have mentioned if nothing else."

Max supposed she was right; her father had been an inspector with the fire department before taking a job for an engineering firm in Seattle. What did and didn't happen to the land in and around Arcadia Bay had been his whole job. "I guess so. Maybe she was just messing around."

"Baby, you sound tired," Vanessa observed. She was far from wrong. "I'm going to let you go and tell you to get some sleep. Try to sleep in tomorrow."

"Can't sleep in tomorrow, I have… there's another funeral. For Rachel."

"Honey you didn't know her at all, surely you don't have –"

"Chloe knew her. I have to be there for Chloe."

Several seconds of air stood undisturbed before Vanessa answered. "I understand. Call me if you need anything. We want to come see you soon."

"I'm okay, mom. We'll talk soon, okay?"

After an exchange of love and endearments, Max groaned her frustration as she set down the phone. It had made it better and worse all at once to talk to her mother but not really be able to _open up_ to her. And facing Rachel's funeral loomed large in her mind. _Did you really 'burn the fucking forest down', Rachel?_ Max wondered to herself. It was strange that she nor her mother remembered it, but not impossible; they had moved away. But it was still odd. Max had seen quite a few odd things in the last several days, though, and figured it would be worth checking into. _Is that who you were? I'm sorry you're gone, I really am, no matter what you did. Take care of Chloe if you see her_.

Max shut the journal again and sat on her bed. Really, it was just dinner time, only still darkening behind the rainfall, but she was done with today. _If I wake up before midnight, I'll order something_ , was her last conscious thought as she drifted to sleep, unconsciously cradling Chloe's journal in her arms.


End file.
